


He Became a Stranger to Himself

by TheAcheron (Asphodelethe)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean going batshit, End of S9, First Blade, Mark of Cain, Slight AU because the details vary somewhat, Speculation, ie Cas still has his dumb angel group because i wrote that in a while ago and EUGH can't retcon it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:48:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asphodelethe/pseuds/TheAcheron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could happen at the end of Season Nine? How will the Mark of Cain affect Dean? What will Sam do? What will Cas do?</p><p>Can Dean be saved from himself?</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ah I just had a flash of sudden interest in what may happen at the end of this Season, though to be honest, much of what I say right at the start is just to allow the rest to happen.  
> This won't just be this one chapter, but I kinda liked how it ended, so perhaps there will be a second or a third just to wrap up a potential theory. 
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: This is going to deviate WILDLY from the actual events of season nine. Rather than focusing immediately on heaven, I assume hell is first taken care of, leaving the matter of Metatron to stew for a while longer; all the time the Mark of Cain is growing ever more influential over Dean's action.  
> As such, events in the last five or so episodes of season nine have been more or less ignored (seeing as they aren't out yet) and I've just gone off in my own direction.
> 
> This is basically self-indulgence, I apologise.

The Mark of Cain had really done a number on Dean.

  
It was useless now. Abaddon had finally been destroyed, laying in burning pieces, her head hacked off by the First Blade. Annoyingly, Crowley had vanished once more. He may have returned to Hell, Monarch Victorious, he may have slunk off to do whatever the hell it was he did in his free time... It didn’t matter. Both Winchesters knew that sooner or later they’d have to deal with him, and they would. Besides, the last time they’d seen him, he had seemed more human than ever. Perhaps he wasn’t really as sober as he’d previously led them to believe.

But Dean on the other hand… Dean was in a lot of trouble. More trouble than he’d ever been in. The Mark still etched into his arm was a grim reminder of all the darkness that had surged through him the last few weeks. It didn’t glow anymore; not since the Blade had been destroyed. But that, unfortunately, wasn’t really the problem.

The problem was much, _much_ deeper.

  
Dean had borne the Mark of Cain for months, and had used it more times than he’d ever intended. With each use, it became harder and harder to come back to himself from the dark, murderous state he found himself in. It would be easy to call it mindless, or frenzied, but that wasn’t at all the case. Each time Dean resurfaced, he could remember perfectly the clarity he had possessed with the Blade in hand. He’d felt more powerful, more in control than ever before, his mind honed to a perfect killing concentration. He felt the tug of demonic presence so acutely and the swiftness of his actions – extending his arm and beheading them without restraint – felt as natural to him as breathing. And yet… each time the Mark burned, he had felt a little of himself drain away, until before long, there wasn’t much of him left to return to.

  
Sam had watched his brother in horror as the darkness within him grew, as his morals began to decay, as his hunting became more precise, more ruthless. He had watched him, and finally known what it had felt like for Dean to see him succumb to the demon blood addiction. And it terrified him. There was little he could do. He couldn’t lock Dean up in Bobby’s old panic room and make him go cold turkey after all; the house was gone, and besides, there was nothing to go dry from. No addiction made Dean do anything, because his vice was scarred into his forearm and carved into his mind. Even away from the Blade it held Dean hostage. Even away from the Blade, the darkness remained.  
The last remnants of clarity Dean still had hold of were fading, bit by bit, day by day, and nothing in the Men of Letter’s immense library were of any use, though Sam still pored through them ceaselessly every day. Sam pretended not to know it, but Dean spent each and every one of those moments of clarity praying to Cas. Not for him, though of course he was frightened, but for Sammy. He prayed that Cas would come and destroy him, because Sam never would. He knew he was fading to the Mark. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to bear it like Cain had been. He knew he wasn’t really worthy of something even so horrific as the title of best murderer. He couldn’t carry the burden, and the burden was enveloping his mind. Sooner or later, it would perceive Sam as a threat, and Sam would die by his hand.

  
He could not allow that. He _would_ not allow that.

  
And so he prayed.

He didn’t know if Cas heard him. The last thing the angel had told them was that he was once again involved in another angelic civil war (as if the first one hadn’t ended so disastrously), and Dean knew that that was more important – infinitely more important – than him. But he hoped at least that his friend… that his _best_ friend… could do him one last favour.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean paced his room. Ever since he had realised the Mark was taking root deep inside him, he had confined himself to the bunker and forced Sam to let him lock the door. The last bout of losing himself had lasted over twenty-four hours, and he feared that soon he wouldn’t come back at all. Between his moments of gradually waning lucidity, Dean would find himself sitting on the centre of his bed, staring at the door, waiting for the next victim of his knife to come to him. Outside the room, he was a danger to everyone he may come across. Though at first the Mark had reacted only to demons, and although it required the Blade to truly do its work, he had noticed more and more that the longer it was scored into his arm, the more using it began to feel natural, and the more his idea of who deserved to die began to warp. Cain had warned him there would be consequences, and a steep price, but Dean had been so focused on ending Abaddon he hadn't cared.

He hadn’t known it at the time, but even being around other kinds of monsters elicited the kind of reaction he had thought only demons would. He had killed that werewolf cop when he found out Garth was no longer human, and, not that he noticed, but killing it had been far too easy. And then again, with those sick bastards playing dress-up… Dean had sunk his blade into that guy’s chest without a second thought. Sam didn’t really say anything, and Dean thought nothing of it at the time, but he had just killed a regular human. A sick, depraved human, sure, but a human being nonetheless. That wasn’t usually down to them; they usually let the police deal with regular people. And Dean hadn’t even noticed. He had deemed him dangerous and had killed him accordingly.

Dean tried to push those thoughts aside and stopped pacing. Instead, he collapsed on the bed and threw an arm across his eyes. The memory foam beneath him was comfortable and welcoming, the sheets soft, the light muted and relaxing. He knew he should feel calm in this room, feel safe, but instead he all he felt was trapped. He tried not to think of himself as some kind of dangerous caged animal, but the idea was too invasive and gnawed relentlessly at his mind. After all, it was true.

But what worried him more than that was the fact that he cared about his freedom at all. He had no problem, he rationalised, with staying in his room, as long as it meant the people he cared for were safe. After all, he didn’t really know how the Mark worked. He knew it made him a better, more perfect killer, and he knew it felt drawn to his enemies, to the things he thought deserved to die. But he also knew he didn’t have much control when it influenced him; subtly moving him to act without restraint, without consideration for ethics. The one thing that kept racing through his mind was, “ _what if I ever consider Sam a threat, or Cas, or any person that could be stopped instead of killed? What if I don’t have a choice? What if I hurt them…_?”

And that kid, with the Ghostfacers. That sick fucking kid.

Alone in his room he kept thinking, _he didn’t need to die like that_. He remembered thinking at the time that the son of a bitch needed to go down for what he’d done, for what he was going to do to Sam. He remembered that he didn’t care that the bastard was going to kill him, and he knew he didn’t kill him for revenge. No… all that went through his mind as he slid the knife into the boy’s soft flesh was, this psychopath needs to stop. And so he stopped him. But sat in the bunker, miles away and weeks later, the kid’s face lingered in his memory.

He lowered his arm and stared sightlessly at the ceiling above him. The worst part was he didn’t actually regret killing him; he knew the bastard was dangerous and he knew he needed to be stopped. But he also knew what he had done was too much, and he had gone too far. What really concerned him, far more than the killing art, was that he had acted completely on autopilot. He hadn’t stopped to see if they could restrain the kid. He hadn’t stopped to try to knock him out or break his arm, or anything short of ending his life. He had acted on instinct alone, and his instinct had told him to stop the boy permanently.

The worst part was that the first reaction he had had to that concept was to kill. And that alone was terrifying. If he got out of the bunker in one of his periods of absent morality, he could try to kill just about anyone. He had killed that kid because he was a murderer, and because he tried to kill both him and Sammy. But that was a while ago now, and the Mark had since had more time to gradually invade every fibre of his being. If he got out now… Well, Dean dreaded to think who he might consider worthy of his blade.

And so he made up his mind.

He forced himself to his feet, annoyed that he felt so good, so full of energy when by all rights he should be exhausted. Crossing the room, he seized every weapon from his wall and threw them onto his bed. He gathered up anything else in his room that could even be considered a weapon – clothes hangers went onto the pile, his razor blades, even sheets that could be used to strangle – and bundled them up in a blanket with his knives and guns. He lugged them to the door, unlocked it, and heaved them outside. He could vaguely tell that Sam was in the library as usual, and tried to ignore his presence. Something in the back of his mind tugged at him, warned him that the man down the hall was a threat, was a killer, but he supressed it. He threw the bundle of weapons into another room and shut the door tightly. Dean knew he wasn’t truly mindless when his willpower checked out, and that two doors between him and a gun wasn’t much, but he hoped he could at least slow himself down.

He began to feel his clarity lose focus once more. This latest bout of freedom had lasted no time at all he realised at he stared at his watch. The terror of losing his will, his morals and his identity crashed anew upon him, and he hurriedly closed the door and locked it. He slid the key under the door as an extra fuck you to what he quickly began referring to as his other self, and pushed every piece of furniture he could move in front of it. Now Sam couldn’t get in and, hopefully, he couldn’t get out. If he could, at least his other self would have to concern himself with escaping first, and that could take a while.

Retreating one more to his bed, Dean settled himself in the centre and dropped his head into his hands. He prayed to Cas again. He apologised to his friend; wishing rather than hoping that the angel would hear him and come back before he could do any damage. Not for his sake, but for Sam’s.

Unsure of what else to say, he broke of the prayer, and looked back upon his barricade handiwork. It wasn’t much, he thought, smiling wryly, but any edge he could afford Sam the better. Even as the thought crossed his mind, the smile dropped from his face and the shine went from his eyes, leaving them blank, but calculating. His other self was yet again in control, and this time, he didn’t think he would ever leave.

The Mark on his arm flickered into life as he began to survey the damage Dean had done. A humourless smile, darkly antagonistic of the one his face had worn moments prior, disfigured his face.

Breaking out would take no time at all. And look! His first court of order was inside this very building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hey look at that, I actually posted a follow up. How interesting. I'm kinda impressed with myself, ngl. Well. Here you go, hope that wasn't too awful for you.   
> If all goes to plan, I might even write another chapter soon, oooooh, go me. Hang in there if you want to read more, I'm kinda awful at self-motivation. :]


	3. Chapter 3

   “ _Please Cas… I need… I need you to stop me. You were right. You were both right. It’s too much and I need you to come stop me. Please. Cas, man, I need you to save Sam… from me. I... I just…_ ”

   The prayer broke off. Cas came back to himself with Dean’s pleas still ringing in his head. A few of his fellow angels glanced his way, and to avoid their questions, he slipped into the adjoining bathroom of the base of operations they occupied.

   Dean’s voice had been broken and hesitant. Every syllable dripped with aching remorse and bitter self-loathing. Hearing that – hearing his friend like that – ignited every emotion Castiel had come to feel and recognise as his own. Sadness, fearfulness, despair, terror, grief, longing; even a touch of “ _I told you so_ ” anger made it into the mix.

  He wanted nothing more than to immediately jump into his car and drive all night, non-stop, until he reached the bunker. More than that, he wanted his wings, so he could be there with a thought. He frowned into the cracked, filthy mirror, gripped the edge of the grimy porcelain sink and began to work out the details.

   He had to go, there was no doubt about it. Dean was his friend, his best friend, and right now he was in danger. Sam too. Dean had been growing more and more dangerous, much darker, and certainly without inhibition in his killing. He was well acquainted with the mythology of the Mark and knew the burden it required its bearers to shoulder. If he had been there…. If he could have convinced Dean _not_ to accept the Mark….

   Cas sighed and released the sink, instead pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes. He’d seen it in some of the movies Metatron had poured into his head and, at this point, he finally understood the gesture. His head even hurt appropriately.

 

   He couldn’t let either of them face the consequences of the Mark of Cain alone, and would never consign them to that fate. After all, they were his family, just as much as the angels busy in the other room. Cas knew he had to go to them and try to reason with Dean; try to break through the Mark and retrieve the man beneath it. From his prayers, the angel could tell the hunter was hurting. Emotion as well as words poured through the connection and even the increasingly fragmentary nature of Dean’s brief prayers allowed Castiel a glimpse into the worry and fear consuming his friend. A worry, he was frightened to admit, was entirely understandable.

   He stared in the mirror and envisioned his friends. Dean, tall, gruff, not so good with words – at least not the ones that mattered – and fiercely protective of those he considered family. Cas felt a rush of warmth and a smile tug his lips at the knowledge that that included him. A man who time after time shouldered the weight of the world like a mortal Atlas because he thought it was what he deserved. A man who had been moulded into a soldier and thrust into a battle he barely understood by forces greater and more powerful than himself; and yet, despite the odds, he had come out on top. And Sam! Sam, the boy who had suffered so much, who had been sullied since childhood with a darkness in his blood he could not help nor control. And yet, he had grown to be a man so full of kindness and loving, so full of forgiveness and compassion that Cas felt proud to have been befriended by such a person.

   They needed him, far more than the angels in his dusty motel room. His siblings were more than busy in their own endeavours; tracking Metatron, setting up skirmishes, ambushing his followers and trying to do everything they could to break into Heaven and take the fight to him. They needed Cas; they said so over and over. He was their leader and they looked up to him with a naïve trust and blind belief in his abilities that he did not share with them.

   His run in with Metatron had been only a few short months ago. The scribe had detailed his plans for Castiel and had gone as far as to use Gabriel to try and shoehorn him into his role as Metatron’s “villain”. Cas didn’t want to think of himself as the villain of this story, but he certainly didn’t consider himself the hero. In his eyes, Sam and Dean were the heroes; he was the constant failure, and the reason Metatron was busy writing his own gospel.

  He knew he needed to do everything he could to stop Metatron. But more than that, he knew he had to help protect his friends. His brothers. The boys who had risked so much for him, forgiven him time and time again, taken him into their own broken family and helped him try to repair his. He owed them so much, and the least he could do was go now and try to save the man he had fallen for.

 

   Cas left the bathroom, and crossed to a drawer in his office. It had been pushed to the corner of the room, as with every other useless piece of furniture, to make room for his makeshift angel HQ, and atop it lay his possessions. Determined and resolute, Cas seized the duffel he had taken to carrying with him since his wings were removed and stuffed it with weapons. He didn’t think he would need to use any – and he never would, not against Dean – but his brief life on the road had left him jaded and aware of the necessity of preparation.

   Joining the few weapons went various magical ingredients he had acquired over the weeks, as well as some medical supplies. Then, after quickly looking around to see if any of his brothers or sisters were watching, he added a few energy bars he had carefully hidden in the otherwise empty drawer.

   They were his secret from the other angels. He didn’t need his siblings knowing just how badly the stolen grace had already affected him. He didn’t need them to know he felt a steadily growing hunger in his empty stomach and intrusive tendrils of tiredness deep in his bones. They were counting on him to be strong and unbending; the seraphim and the captain they deserved. But Castiel was growing ever more certain that he wasn’t what they needed. Gabriel – if indeed it _was_ his brother at the time - had assured him he could lead their kin and that this time he would not fail.

   Castiel did not believe him.

   Metatron had outlined his story ten weeks ago and in that time Cas and his band of followers had made little progress. Sure, they’d added more angels to their ranks and, yeah they’d thwarted one or two of Metatron’s lesser plot devices, but they were no closer to breaching heaven and ending his absurd civil war.

   Even if Dean wasn’t in trouble and Sam wasn’t potentially in danger of whatever the Mark may force Dean to do, at this point Cas would seek their help and their council regardless, because there was nobody else in existence Cas trusted or valued more than the Winchesters.

 

   He zipped the bag shut and slung it over one shoulder. The keys to his quote unquote “borrowed” car sat heavy in his coat pocket and he fished them out with fingers itching to begin the drive to the bunker. A few of the angels had finally noticed his movements and regarded him with a mix of confusion and fear. His latest lieutenant, Hadraniel, dropped what she was doing and approached him; falling in step with him as he crossed the room and opened the door.

 

   “Castiel?” she asked. Her voice is soft and inquisitive and, though curious, the idea that he may be betraying them doesn’t enter her mind. She trusts him, wholeheartedly. “Are we fighting?” Level with him, she followed him to the car parked outside and quirked an eyebrow when he unlocked it. “Where is the fighting? I wasn’t aware there was to be a battle. Who’s going with you?”

   “Nobody.” He tried to layer his voice with kindness, to let her down gently, and he sighs again when he realises his voice is gruffer and more dismissive than he had intended. “There isn’t a fight, Hadraniel. But I have to go.”

   She stood with her arms folded, watching him. The duffel was carefully deposited in the passenger seat and Cas circled round to the driver’s side. “The Winchesters.” It came out as a statement, not a question, and Cas nodded in agreement.

  “The Winchesters,” he repeated, climbing into the car and starting the engine.  “They need my help. You’re in charge until I get back. Keep deciphering those sigils and call me if anything happens.” He could see she was unhappy with his decision – a memory of Rachel sprang to mind, which he quickly pushed away. As he pulled out of the motel parking lot and saw her watching him go in the rear view mirror, he wished briefly that he could turn back and return to his small unit. But Dean was in trouble and Sam was in danger…

 

   The angels were just going to have to fend for themselves.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy look at that, an update! An honest to God, REAL update. You guys are so lucky. I kinda wanted to get to the next bit here, but I think it made a decent cliffhanger - only not really - so I stopped. If you're super lucky, I might even churn out ANOTHER chapter before the finale comes along and ruins my carefully thought out theories. As it already has. Goddamn. 
> 
> I'll go back and remove chapter four soon, dw. I just wanted to get this update done before I do

 

   Research was going slowly. Lore on the Mark of Cain was surprisingly scarce, even in the Men of Letter’s extensive collection, and the more books Sam had to place in the useless pile, the more disheartened he felt about helping his brother. He had a few brief lines of chicken-scratch notes and a couple post-it notes pressed in between the few pages containing something relevant, but on the whole, there wasn’t much.

   Sam sighed, stretched linked hands over his head and behind until the knots in his spine popped and his shoulders ached a little less. He pushed his hair back and scowled down at the notepad in front of him. It was useless. He couldn’t do any more tonight. He glanced at his wristwatch and blinked in surprise. Oh. This morning, he corrected. He must have zoned out. Definitely time to go to bed.

   He pushed the chair back and stood, glad to be able to stretch his long legs and shake the disuse from his tired muscles. Slightly hungry, Sam decided he’d grab a snack or something and go see how Dean was doing before turning in for the night. He hadn’t seen his brother in a while and, to be honest, he was really starting to worry about him.

   The kitchen was cold and dark when he entered but he didn’t bother flick on the ancient switch. He knew where everything was by now and found and apple with ease. Biting into it, Sam left the room and headed towards Dean’s. Most of the lights were out in the bunker but it didn’t bother Sam. He’d spent enough nights in crappy motels with electricity on the fritz and enough hunts at midnight in abandoned houses to become used to dark rooms. His eyes adjusted quickly anyway, thanks to a lifetime of practice, and he soon turned onto the corridor their rooms were on.

   As he drew nearer to Dean’s self-imposed prison, Sam began to get the feeling something was up. Debris littered the floor outside Dean’s room. Splinters of wood and scraps of material, among other more substantial things, formed a domestic carnage more shocking than much of the bloodshed Sam had witnessed throughout his life. He dropped his apple and let it roll away, already forgotten.

   Sam recognised one of Dean’s lamps smashed against the opposite door and Dean’s old typewriter abandoned in dejected fragments; keys scattered from one wall to the other, ribbon trailing down the hall away from where Sam now stood. His arms came up naturally, defensively, and Sam took a hesitant step forwards. He had to be careful; he knew his brother could make a formidable foe, especially if the Mark was polluting his mind.

   He paused. No sound came from his brother’s darkened room and so he took another cautious step. He made sure not to step on any of the ruined things and make a noise that would let Dean know he was coming. Something else lay tattered and alone amongst the wreckage. Something small, white and square, partially buried under typewriter plastic. Sam couldn’t stop to look and instead moved to the wall beside Dean’s open door. He peered round the corner into the gloom, vigilant for any slight movement or sound, but nothing stirred within. Reaching in, he quickly flipped the light on and rounded on the entrance.

  Empty.

  Sam let out a sigh of relief and straightened up. He allowed his hands to fall to his sides and frowned in confusion at the sight in front of him.

   Dean’s room was totally wrecked. His valuable records lay in jagged vinyl pieces, his shirts and jackets were strewn wildly across the floor, his memory foam mattress had been flung into a corner and on top of it sat the splintered remains of his desk chair. However, most worryingly, the numerous weapons that had decorated his walls were gone. Sam backed out of the room in a state of absolute shock. He knew the Mark had been hurting Dean, making him angrier than usual, more prone to violence, but this…. This was terrifyingly emotionless. What few possessions his brother had amassed lay broken and twisted in a tableau of detached ferocity and Sam realised, truly realised for the first time that maybe the Mark was much worse than he thought. Much worse than any of them had thought.

      Looking around he realised that Dean must have made off down the corridor in the opposite direction to the way Sam had come. Distractedly wondering where his brother could have been headed, Sam accidentally kicked aside a piece of typewriter casing. It clattered as it bounced and Sam, berating himself for being so careless, immediately looked down to avoid disturbing anything else.

   That was when he saw it. The white square. Only, looking at it fully revealed as it now was – he must have inadvertently kicked the exact bit of typewriter covering it up – he was surprised to see it wasn’t a true square. A ragged tear segmented the shape, roughly from the top right side all the way across to the bottom left, transforming it from what must have been a landscape rectangle to a rough-cut square. Sam bent and picked it up, already dreading what it must be but desperately hoping it wasn’t. He turned it over and his breath caught in his throat.

    Mary’s face was severed straight through her right eye, leaving only the extreme right-hand side of her face visible. The torn picture now only showed a young Dean, completely separated from the smiling visage of his mother, but grinning up at his brother nonetheless. Mary’s half was nowhere to be seen. Sam’s hands shook as he took in the damage and tears welled in his eyes. Dean would never willingly destroy this picture. With this unthinkable turn of events, his fears indisputably reinforced a thousand times over. Dean was not himself and the Mark must have completely corrupted his mind.

   Sam tucked what was left of the picture into his pocket, steeled himself and set off down the corridor.

   He _had_ to find his brother.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my look at that! TWO UPDATES. In just a few hours.
> 
> I couldn't sleep at all last night so I just planned out everything that will happen and wrote instead? Have fun, I guess. I found the tenses hard here. Hmm.
> 
> By the by, have some ACTIONNNN

   Sam followed the typewriter ribbon and fragments of wood and glass leading down the corridor. The photograph sat heavily in his pocket, but he had to ignore it and focus on his hunt, so to speak. His hands itched for a weapon. When he reached his own door, Sam slipped inside and retrieved his gun from under his pillow. He checked it was loaded, checked the safety was off and, firearm at the ready, he ventured back into the wreckage-strewn corridor. Dean certainly hadn’t made it too difficult to follow him. As Sam turned the corner, he was both pleased and amazed to see the destruction of the bunker continued, albeit on a smaller scale. Lights had been smashed in and door handles ripped off.

    Woah. When had Dean gotten _that_ strong? All the more reason to find him quickly, before he potentially hurt someone.

   The debris began to thin out significantly, but Sam, trained to spot small clues when hunting, noticed a smear of typewriter ink on the floor. Dean must have stepped in it and tracked it all this way. Sam took a moment to thank that instance of dumb luck before following the new trail. Before long, the ink had run out too and Sam was left without a direction to follow. Surveying his surroundings, he was surprised to see he’d been led in almost a complete loop. Straight ahead lay the library. With a rising sense of foreboding, Sam decided that that may be exactly where Dean had been headed all along.

   Headed to Sam.

   Within the door to the library, Sam could hear some faint crashes, some ripping and tearing noises and a few dull thuds. It sounded very much like Dean may have moved the party inside. Just as he was preparing to enter the library, Sam was startled out of his focused deliberation by the phone in his pocket beginning to vibrate. He fished it out, thankful it was on silent, and answered.

 

   “Cas? What’s wrong? Is everything OK?”

   “Hello Sam. Everything’s fine, I’m just letting you know I’ll be in Kansas soon. I’m coming to the bunker. I think Dean might be in trouble.”

   “Yeah, you and me both.” He shifted the phone to hold it between his ear and shoulder, allowing his arms freedom to aim the gun again properly. He pointed it down the way he’d come and backed against a wall. “Dean’s in a **lot** of trouble.”

   “What do you mean?” He could hear the frown on the angel’s face and practically feel the eyes narrow.

   “I mean I haven’t seen him in days, and when I went to check on him just now, his room was wrecked and he wasn’t in there.” He dropped his voice lower. “I’m looking for him right now.”

   “Sam, be careful.” Cas’ voice shifted from mildly worried to full-blown alarmed. “Dean’s not himself right now and if he thinks for whatever reason you stand between him and his goals…”

   “Yeah, I know, he’ll David Berkowitz me.”

   “I’m not familiar…”

   “Look, it’s not important right now. I’ll be careful Cas, but it wouldn’t hurt if you were to drive a little faster, ok? I could use all the backup I could get.” He anxiously swept the corridor again, and repositioned the phone. 

   “Sam. I don’t know how much use I’ll be. My… batteries are draining. I’m losing my grace again, more every day. I-”

   “Hey, look Cas, we don’t need your grace right now, alright? We need you. So get back in your car and start speeding, ok? I’ll see you in a couple hours.” He allowed Cas his brief farewell and ended the call, re-pocketing the phone and training the gun on the entrance to the library.

   He certainly hoped the angel would break a few speed limits on his way. Just having him as support would make him feel a lot better about all this.

   Breaking out of his distracted thoughts, Sam began to advance on the library. He hadn’t heard anything from that direction since Cas’ call came through and hoped Dean hadn’t overheard enough to set up an ambush inside. Ever so cautiously, Sam pushed the door open and slipped inside, checking both near corners as he did in case his brother was lurking in the shadows there. In the clear, Sam pushed on into the main body of the library.

   It was in shambles.

   The chair Sam had occupied not twenty minutes earlier lay smashed to bits, as did the lamp he had used to read by. But even more troubling was that all of Sam’s notes had been ripped apart and the books likewise destroyed. The paper lay scattered about the place, worthless confetti amongst fragments of callous destruction. Hours of work, utterly decimated in a few short minutes of frenzy. As with the debris before, a few stray pieces of shredded paper seem to lead towards the kitchen. Apparently, Dean’s strange follow-the-leader game wasn’t quite over yet.

   Checking his six, Sam once again pressed on, now more confident he’s closing in on his brother. He edged into the doorway of the kitchen, this time annoyed it’s so dark and reached out to flick on the light switch.

   The lights flickered on and the room was suddenly flooded with brightness. As Sam blinked to adjust to the brilliance, Dean explodes from behind the door, forcing Sam back and knocking the gun from his hand. It clattered away under a tall bookcase and Sam landed hard on the floor. He scrabbled desperately backwards. Dean clutched a long kitchen knife in his right hand, eerily reminiscent of the First Blade, and he advanced on his little brother, still on his ass but pulling himself backwards. Real fear bloomed on Sam’s face, but on Dean’s, a snarl; his eyes were darkened, cold and staring while fury visibly rippled under his skin. He slashed wildly with the knife, impervious to Sam’s frantic plea of “Dean, stop! You’re my _brother_! STOP!”

   Sam threw himself to the side, dipping under his brother’s sweeping attack, and seized a section of broken chair leg. The thought that he doesn’t much like his odds of kindling against honed metal crossed his mind, but he certainly prefers it to metal versus soft flesh. He parried another powerful slash but was driven backwards, colliding with the table he worked at before. Dropping the splintered wood, Sam seized the lamp not broken by Dean, and hurls it at him. His brother dodges, but a glancing blow slowed him down enough for Sam to take the window of opportunity and make a break for his gun.

   When he gets there, he finds it’s further than he thought, and, with Dean coming up fast, he grabs the nearest thing to hand; a big, heavy tome about the Libyan Lamia. He turned back, Dean stood over him once more. “I should have killed you years ago,” he growled through bared teeth and stabbed the knife down at his brother. Sam swung the book heavily up, meeting the knife halfway. The knife became embedded up to the hilt within the pages, which allowed Sam, breathing heavily, to yank it away from his brother. Then, capitalising on the moment of confused rage replacing Dean’s hitherto _murderous_ rage, he managed to swing a leg behind his knees and kick them out from under him. Dean fell, hard, and Sam wasted no time in smacking him over the head with the book until he passed out.

   He dropped to his knees. His brother lay on his back, limbs sprawled, face bloodied but devoid of fury for the first time that night. Sam had to try hard to bite back the tears welling in his eyes but, unsuccessful, they ran in rivers down his cheeks. But he knows Dean will wake soon – the Mark strengthens his constitution after all – and so, gingerly, he managed to pick his brother up and carry him to Crowley’s old dungeon. Placed in the chair and cuffed, Dean becomes a prisoner to his brother; a brother who still believes, despite everything he had just seen and heard, that Dean is still in there somewhere.

   “It’s for the best,” he said with a heavy heart, locking the door on the unconscious man. Then, finally overcome with tiredness and grief, Sam allowed himself to sink heavily to the floor, with his back to the door, rest his hands on his knees with his head tilted back and his eyes tightly closed.

   An hour and a half later, when Cas reached the bunker, Sam still hadn't moved. Still leaning against the dungeon door is where the angel found him and, pulling him to his feet, led him gently away. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well lookit this, a whole new chapter. It's less than six hours until the finale, and I'm maybe three or four chapters off finishing this thing? How about we see how that goes. I'm excited, ooooooh.
> 
> Also, did I hear people liked Sam and Cas interacting? 'Cus they are. No takebacks.

 

   “I had no idea he was so bad.”

    Cas’ hands were wrapped around a big mug of coffee and he gazed fearfully into its steaming depths. His grip tightened, seemingly ignoring the scalding china between his hands, and he looked mournfully up at the younger Winchester. “Sam, if I had known I’d have come here sooner. You shouldn’t have had to deal with this alone.” He paused and looked in the general direction of the dungeon. “Neither of you,” he added, softly.

  Opposite him and nursing his own mug of undrunk coffee, Sam shrugged one of his broad shoulders and tried his best to smile at the angel. “You know how Dean is,” he said, the smile slipping, “too stubborn and wanting to shoulder every problem all by himself. I mean, I knew this Mark thing was bad, but I didn’t know it was…” He shut his eyes and his brows knitted in pain. He laughed but the sound was harsh and full of barely-concealed despair. Visibly shaking off the darker thoughts no doubt circling in his mind, his expression set to one of determination and he met the angel’s unblinking stare once more. “We’ve gotta do something Cas.”

   “We will, Sam. And I really am sorry-“

   “No, don’t worry about it. You’re here now, that’s all that matters. Besides, the heaven thing is more than a little important itself. How’s that going by the way?”

   “Good.” He rolled his eyes. Well not _good_ , good… It’s, ah… _slow_.” He shrugged. “But we are making progress. Gadreel is being very helpful.” Immediately, Sam tensed up, his brows furrowed and his mouth dropped open in shock.

   “Gadreel?”

   “Sam…”

   “ _Gadreel_?? Cas, are you outta your mind? What d’you mean he’s _helping_?”

   “Sam, I know how you feel about him, but he’s helping. He realised Metatron was the wrong angel to follow and met with me. He’s been giving us information for weeks now.”

   “So he’s a spy.” Cas nodded. “And you still trust him? The _spy_? The spy who screwed up Eden? The spy who… who kicked back in my skull without me knowing? _That spy_??”

   “Sam, please, let me-“

   “How can you trust him, Cas!? How can you even begin to try to trust him?”

   “Because I have no choice!” All at once Cas’ face hardened and his voice raised to fill the cavernous room. He threw his hands up in the air in an exaggerated, mock shrug. “What else can I do, Sam? I’m trying to organise a coup against the angel who has total control over heaven, and over my siblings. I have angels, back at our headquarters, desperate to get back home, and I had to do something! No, I don’t trust him; at least not yet. But I’m willing to try to forgive him, at least in part, and see how it goes. If he offers us even the slightest edge against Metatron, I’m going to take it. For _them_ , Sam. For my brothers and sisters. I owe them that much.”

   Sam, blinking in shock, was completely taken aback. Cas wasn’t angry per say, but as he slumped back in his chair, exhausted from his brief rant, Sam was able to see the burden he once again carried. He leaned forward, rested his hands palm-down on the table and said softly, “It’s all on you again, isn’t it Cas?”

   “It’s my fault.” The angel looked so defeated, so utterly tired by everything that had happened, and Sam felt an immense pang of selfish guilt stab through his gut.

   “Hey… Cas… If you think this is the right call, then I trust you.” He smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “I owe _you_ that much.” The angel met his eyes, blinked twice in surprise, then smiled widely and warmly.

   “Thank you Sam,” he said.

   “Plus if he can get you back into heaven, that’s also pretty good, I guess.”

   “I don’t think he can get me back into heaven. My… The grace I have right now, it’s not mine.” He waved away Sam’s protestations. “I can feel it draining away, more and more every day, and soon it’ll be gone altogether.”

   “Well, isn’t it like before? You were cut off from heaven and it drained away then, but when you went back it recharged your batteries, right?”

   “But I was an angel then.” He lifted his hands and stared at them. “Sam, I don’t think I’ve been an angel ever since the fall. Metatron _took_ my grace. He cut out what made me an angel. This borrowed grace is making me look like an angel, and it’s letting me fight like an angel, but underneath…”

   “You’re still human.”

   “… yeah, I think so.”

   “So when it’s all gone-“, Sam started, and Cas finished, “I won’t be going back to heaven.” He laughed wryly and smiled at Sam. “Well, not as an angel at least.”

   “Oh Cas, man, I’m so sorry.”

   “Don’t be. I’ve been a human before and I don’t think I mind becoming one again. I’m just worried that without it, I won’t be able to kill Metatron.” He trailed off. “But anyway,” his hands clenched and he visibly resolved himself. “Let’s worry about Dean first. He’s far more important than my problems right now.”

   Sam cast one last appraising look over his friend, then grimly nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

   “Then let’s go see if he’s up.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dang. Seven. That's kinda amazing, if I do say so myself. There's literally like two chapters left but this took me an hour and a half and the finale is so close, I don't have time???
> 
> Enjoy this anyway I guess. Maybe I'll finish it despite the finale, huh? It's quite enjoyable to write. I'm having a whale of a time.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy the finale everyone!

 

   Dean was, indeed, “up”.

   As Sam and Cas entered the room, the heavy door swung slowly inwards to gradually reveal Dean, slumped and chained in his chair in a surreal mockery of Crowley’s earlier imprisonment. The sight turned Sam’s stomach and caused the Cas’ ever-present frown to deepen ever more. With Sam in the lead and the angel flanking his left, they advanced on the devil trap and the man within it.  

   Dean instantly raised his head to regard the pair. To begin with, there seemed to be a cloud over him, a haze to his eyes and an element of deep, primal fury just moments away from ripping through his freckled skin and leaping, hissing, at the two people he cared most for in the world. But it lifted, gradually, and the Dean they knew was still inside him seemed to wade forward though his own waist-deep mist. His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion and then widened suddenly in what seemed to be an epiphany of recognition. A wide, if not deeply tired grin split his face as he looked from one man to the next.

    “Heya Sammy. Hi Cas.” He cocked his head slightly and regarded the angel with renewed intensity. “When did you get here? And how long have I been out?”

   Both angel and younger brother shared a quick glance before Cas delivered his customary greeting.

   “Hello Dean,” he smiled, warm and genuine despite the worry etched deep in the set of his mouth and the tightness of his eyes. “I got here about half an hour ago. And I believe you’ve only been out of it for about three hours or so?” the angel supplied, glancing again at Sam, who nodded in affirmation.

   “How does your, ah, head feel?” Sam unconsciously rubbed the back of his own head as he spoke. The guilt of having whacked his brother in the skull clearly weighed on him.

   “Uh, fine, I guess. Should it not be? Also, and I can’t believe I didn’t ask this first, why in the hell am I chained up in in the Penthouse suite?”

  “Oh…” Both Sam and Cas spoke at the same time. Neither had considered Dean mightn’t know why; he’d always seemed so lucid in the past, despite the crazy, impassioned killing frenzies the Mark seemed to subject him to. Sam spoke up first.

   “I kinda, hit you in the head… repeatedly…. with a very heavy book.” Dean stared at him. “In my defence,” Sam continued, “you _were_ trying to stab me with a kitchen knife.” 

   “I was _what_?! I tried to… _kill_ _you_?” Dean’s entire face wrinkled in confusion, his eyebrows met and his head shook from side to side slightly, unbelievingly. “No way, I don’t believe it.”

   “You were totally gone, Dean. You were furious and disturbingly insistent that I needed to be filled with new bloody knife-holes. I think you even growled at me at one point? Full on _growled_ , dude.”

   “That doesn’t sound… good.”

   “Yeah it really wasn’t.” He shook his head, shaggy hair flying, and bit his lip. “Dean, it was like you were possessed. Like this thing, this Mark, had completely taken over.” Sam shuffled his feet and finally broke eye contact with his brother. “It was like you weren’t you anymore.”

   “Actually,” interjected Cas, “the Mark intensifies determination and the need to do absolutely anything to achieve your goals. It was definitely Dean, but it was a Dean without inhibition.” He folded his arms and stared at the hunter still chained to the chair. “Dean, you yourself said it feels like perfect calmness when you’re under its influence, right?”

    Dean nodded slowly, evidently still taking in everything Sam had just told him and focused on trying to process it. He switched his attention more fully to Cas when the angel continued to speak.

   “It might feel like you’re in control, but Dean it’s _using you_. The Mark is filling you with so much power and it’s like a drug; you want to keep using it and you think you can stop when you want to, but it’s not that easy. Trust us, we both know what it’s like to have too much power, thinking we could control it. You remember what happened.”

    Both he and Sam regarded each other briefly before matching expressions of regret bloomed on their faces; faces that reflected in sadness the clear memories suddenly drudged to the surfaces of their minds. They suddenly relived harsh snippets of aspects of their lives they’d rather try to forget but would always remember. Sam’s discomfort at being a demon-blood junkie caused him to lower his eyes in remembered shame whilst Castiel’s stint as God and the remorse he still held at the unspeakable things he did was written far more clearly on his face than his usual expressions.

   Dean’s cuffs rattled suddenly, breaking the two out of their unpleasant trips down “worst-decision-of-my-life” memory lane, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

   “I get it”, he murmured, his voice an almost inaudible whisper. “Hell, I knew it was doing something, but I never thought… Sammy, I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted that, you’ve gotta believe me!”

   “I know, Dean. And it’s ok. I don’t blame _you_.” Sam decided it wouldn’t be prudent to mention what Dean had spat at him as he lunged for his final attack. He knew all too well Dean had said many things in the past he didn’t mean because he was under something or other’s influence. Better to chalk this one up to a bad trip and move on.  “But we’ve gotta do something about the Mark, okay?”

   Dean nodded in eager agreement. He certainly seemed keen enough, but saying and doing are two very different things. Sam secretly wondered just how agreeable Dean would be later on when he was being tempted with the Mark’s power again, or being subjected completely to its influence.

   “We don’t know how to get it off you yet, but we’ll figure it out. Cas is a walking encyclopaedia all by himself after all.” He glanced at the angel who nodded thoughtfully.

   “I have some knowledge of the Mark, and one or two ideas on things we could try. Sam and I will have to think it all through first though.”

   “Research will be involved.” Dean thought Sam looked maybe a little too gleeful at the prospect, to be quite honest.

   “Well what kinda time frame are we talking here? And what about Metatron? Or Crowley? I can still kill them with the-“

   “Absolutely not.” Sam’s bitchface cranked directly to eleven, and even Cas seemed to be sporting a similar expression. Dean would have to see to that; he couldn’t have two of them cracking out a double bitchface whenever they pleased.

   “But-“

   “No.” Cas folded his arms and shook his head. “We’ll deal with them somehow. Besides, they aren’t as important as you, Dean. You come first.”

   Dean stared at him incredulously, shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, sighed and overturned his hands, palms up, in a sign of defeat.

   “Fine,” he said, “you go do your thing and I’ll, hang here I guess?” He grimaced. “Any chance of a sandwich or something, Sammy? And can I please get these chains off. They’re really starting to cut.”

   His brother rubbed the back of his neck and took an awkward step back.

   “Look, Dean, I uh… I don’t-“

   “Please, man. I’m not gonna go anywhere, am I? Having my hands stuck together is getting real old real fast, and I have this itch I-“

   “Ahhh ah ah ah, ok, just, promise me you’ll stay put, ok? No pacing the dungeon or beating on the door?”

   Dean gave him a double thumbs up and, at Sam’s behest, Cas stepped forwards and released the cuffs. Dean rubbed his wrists and groaned as he kneaded the slightly reddened skin there, but smiled up at the angel anyway.

   “Thanks, Cas. Much better.”

   He stood and stretched out his arms, hands linked, first to the front, then above, then behind him. He rolled his shoulders and rubbed his left upper arm.

   “Stiff,” he stated. “When you get to my age, hey Cas?” He received a mostly blank stare in response and when the angel opened his mouth, Dean cut off what would undoubtedly be a reminder that Cas was millions of years old. “So what’s the plan now,” he asked.

   “Well, we lock you back in here, and Cas and I go try to figure out a way to get that thing off your arm.”

   “Sounds good. And don’t forget-“

   “Yes, your sandwich, sure. We’ll get right on that.”

   “Priorities, Sammy. Man’s gotta eat when he’s being held captive.”  

   “Uh huh.”

 

   Dean went to lean against the wall as both his brother and his best friend exited his prison, sealing the door behind them with promises they’d work quickly and do everything they could. Dean smiled at them the whole time, waving flippantly when they looked briefly back at him, and dropped his hand when the bolt fell into place.

   His grin evaporated like drops of water flicked on a hot stove. He pushed himself away from the wall and circled slowly back to his chair. He lowered himself into it, placed his arms casually on the armrests and thoughtfully stared at the locked door. Beneath his sleeve, the Mark pulsed gently, as it had been the entire time the other two had been in the room.

   “One step at a time,” he said to himself, his voice calm and measured, and regarded the cuffs discarded thoughtlessly beside him. A smile appeared that started small at first but rapidly spread until it divided his face in a cruel masquerade of humanity as he discarded what he considered to be a very convincing Dean-mask. An Oscar worthy performance, he thought, and began to meticulously plan his escape.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one. I wasn't sure if i'd continue this - doesn't seem much point, but i'm enjoying the exercise, so i'll keep going I think. Not even many more chapters to go tbh. So here, have what's pretty much all filler.

   Back in the ruined library, Sam and Cas both began compiling whatever they could find that was left of Sam’s research. They ended up with a pile of notebook paper stacked neatly on the central table. Luckily, for the most part the papers were simply boxed around the edges, though several sheets here and there had been completely turned to confetti. Cas offered to attempt to fix the paper, but Sam stopped him, telling him to conserve his strength and not waste it on something so trivial.

  “It’s just paper,” he said, smiling as the angel protested, “I can always write out new notes.”  

  Cas didn’t say anything in response, but inside he felt his emotions twist and rise. It may just be paper, he mused, leaving Sam to his furious note-taking, but fixing it should have been trivial. Before all this, he could have done it without even warming up his grace. A slight flex, deep within the very essence of his being, and the shredded papers would have been whole again in the blink of a human eye. Recently, something so simple would require real concentration and would deplete his energy reserves slightly; though he didn’t dare tell Sam this. He didn’t want the youngest Winchester to think him weaker than he already felt. He knew Sam. The boy would try to make him go easy and forget who - or rather what, - he was dealing with. Cas was an angel. Perhaps for not much longer, but he had existed for millions upon millions of years. Potentially being told to sit down and conserve his stolen grace was one indignity too far.

  So he escaped to the kitchen.

 The least he could do whilst Sam jotted down everything he already knew, he decided, was to make himself useful; something he would do by fulfilling Dean’s request for food. He smiled fondly at the memories he had of Dean’s exuberance for and appreciation of  food, though none of his favourites tended to be especially healthy, and resolved to bring his friend what he’d asked for.

  So. Sandwiches. Ah, yes. Like the ones he made for the boys when the leviathan’s were still running rampant. He remembered fetching the best ingredients he could, comforting the pig he slaughtered, assembling the sandwiches with absolute care and offering them to the Winchesters as a gesture of solidarity. Cas frowned slightly. It hadn’t gone over well that time. Granted, he’d not been in the best frame of mind, and perhaps, in hindsight, a sandwich wasn’t the best option at the time, but he was fairly certain this time round it would be received better.

   He began retrieving ingredients from the bunker’s reasonably well stocked pantry and refrigerator and set them on the counter in a neat little assembly line. He couldn’t fly across the globe to get the best produce this time, but Cas was reasonably sure Dean wouldn’t mind.

    As he tried to spread cold, unmalleable butter on slices of brown bread, he couldn’t help thinking that cooking was rather like spellwork; you just needed to add everything in the right order and you were (theoretically) good to go. Spellwork relied on his mind, not his body and the grace glowing dimly within. This cooking thing was something he could do with ease, simply by drawing upon his long-lived life of knowledge and experience.

  He placed the fillings on top on his artistically-spread butter layer and finished it off with more bread. Standing back, he admired his handiwork with a lopsided smile and a truly earnest sense of pride achieved in completing a task well.

   His stomach grumbled. Cas placed a hand on his stomach and glared down at himself. He was incredulous and not at all pleased with his traitorous self. Hunger, he recalled from his time on the streets, was massively debilitating if not taken care of. Though he didn’t really resent his angelic nature fading, he readily admitted humanity came with a few irritating drawbacks; such as a sudden attack of hunger distracting his concentration and sapping his strength.

   Grumbling to himself, he fashioned himself a replica of Dean’s sandwich, and both were quickly sliced neatly in half. He lifted Dean’s gently onto a plate, and Cas carried it back out to the library. He held the plate carefully in both hands as though he supported a treasure.

  Still busy at his notes, Sam looked up as he heard the angel approaching and grinned when he spotted the sandwich Cas held.

  “Oh, man, thanks Cas,” he said, leaning back in his chair and dropping his pen. “I didn’t even think about his food. Too immersed in this, I guess.” He gestured absently at his steadily growing stack of research.

   Cas shrugged and looked down at his creation. “It isn’t much,” he said, with a voice much more gravelly than usual. “But I’m glad to help him in any way I can.” Sam didn’t comment on the hurting in his voice, nor the look of barely concealed sadness etched into his friend’s face. Instead, he grinned even more warmly at him and laughed shortly.

  “It’s appreciated,” he remarked. “Anything we can do to help Dean is… it’s appreciated.” He allowed his smile to linger, attempting to reassure the angel and relieve some worry. Cas shot him a brief look and a twisted half-smile in return, but Sam knew he wasn’t much reassured. The angel turned and left through the kitchen to begin the walk to Dean’s cell. As Sam watched him go, his smile slipped and a look of concern descended upon his face instead. He ran his hands down his face, rubbed his eyes and stretched to clear the first tendrils of drowsiness from intruding in his already tired body. Up until now, he’d been running on adrenaline, fear and worry, but with nothing to do but research, exhaustion was setting back in. He supressed a yawn with one large hand and took up his pen again. He touched the nib to the paper and resumed writing. He couldn’t sleep; not yet. Dean’s safety and wellbeing undisputedly came first.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooooops I didn't upload anything for ages, I am the worst. And it's a shame, because this is actually the bit I wanted to get to all those weeks ago???
> 
> I figure, I might as well finish this now, seeing as there's not much to go, so I can start a brand new shiny AU. I'm excited for that~

   No noise came from within Dean’s makeshift prison. Cas stood outside the door, staring down at the sandwich he held, but not really seeing the food in his hands. He felt what could be the start of tears pinpricking at his eyes, and blinked them back fast. This was not the time to get emotional, though every emotion he had ever come to feel and recognise bubbled to the surface nonetheless.

   He composed himself – angel or no, he thought resolutely, he was still a soldier – and opened the exterior door of the dungeon. Dean’s prison lay beyond, behind a door more heavily protected and certainly more difficult to open single-handedly. He set the sandwich down and moved to unlock the door.

  Still, no noise from within. He was beginning to think Dean might be asleep or… Or maybe something worse had happened?

  A sense of deep unease manifested in the pit of his stomach. His hand rested on the door but Cas hesitated, inhaled deeply and willed the throbbing feeling of worry to ebb away. He was being ridiculous, he knew. Dean was _fine_. Probably just tired and resting, or something. There was no need to work himself up over something so foolish.

   Cas almost allowed a wry laugh to escape his once-borrowed, now-bought lips but swallowed it, telling himself again he was a soldier. No less, a **commander** , even if it was just for the time being. Though he didn’t ask for the role or the responsibility of carrying his siblings hopes on his already burdened shoulders, he had it now… and he couldn’t turn his back on angels far more in need and infinitely more lost than him.

 

   The diminished angel opened the door, took up his plate once more, and entered the jail proper. He kept his eyes on the sandwich, concentrating on keeping it steady, walked a few steps into the room and looked up. The shy smile he wore froze, cracked, and melted right off his face.

 

   It was empty.

 

   The plate slipped from his hands, somersaulted once, twice, and smashed on the concrete floor. Bread and fillings now embedded with ceramic exploded everywhere. A fair amount of mayonnaise and lettuce landed on Cas’ dress shoes, but he didn’t notice. That dark, fathomless sense of unease came rushing back; not content to simply pool in his stomach, this time it consumed him entirely. He scanned the room frantically.

   Nothing.

   He backed up, still staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the vacant chair; at the pooled handcuffs beside it; at the cell that was still completely, unquestionably, Winchester-free. Though he blinked rapidly several times in an attempt to bring Dean back, he stayed gone.

   Cas’ feet moved faster. He squelched backwards through bread and ham but his thoughts were infinitely far away from spilled sandwiches. How could he have vanished? It didn’t make sense. He had been there just a short time ago! Dean couldn’t just… disappear! It made no sense!

   He crossed the boundary, exiting the cell and entering the room beyond. The cell ahead of him remained quiet and abandoned. Cas mentally roused himself. He had to go find Sam; find Dean. Raise the alarm, seek out his friend, make sure he was alright… He had to-

 

   Strong arms grabbed him from behind in an iron embrace. They pinned his own arms to his side and crushed the air out of his steadily weakening lungs – lungs that relied on something so mortal as oxygen. The waning angel didn’t have the time to curse his growing mortality before he was flung bodily against the wall. Dark spots blossomed before his eyes and something warm trickled from his hairline. When his vision turned red, he realised he was bleeding. It hurt.

   He peered through the blood at the dark shape stood over him. The form looked familiar, but the expression… The expression chilled Cas right down to his emerging soul.

  Dean stared down at him and cocked his head. His eyes glowered; lifeless, remorseless… terrifyingly Dean-less. A smile utterly without mercy and utterly unlike anything Cas had ever had directed at him split the elder Winchester’s usually genial face. It was all teeth and menace, like that of a snarling wolf or stalking tiger. It was nothing like the fond smiles Dean usually wore. Even the tired, sometimes mocking smiles the man had sometimes donned didn’t compare to this. This smile reminded Cas of everything deadly in the world. And beyond it.

   He pushed himself against the wall, trying to straighten; if not to stand, at least to right himself. He managed to get to his knees and spat blood that had trickled between his lips. He raised a hand, outstretched, pleading.

  “Dean, please, this isn’t you…”

  He didn’t see the kick coming, but he sure as hell felt it, right in his stomach. He rocked forwards, holding his stomach and trying not to throw up even as he cried out in agony and screwed his eyes tightly shut. When he managed to crack his one open again after some of the pain subsided, and pushed himself back up to kneeling, he saw Dean’s fist come swinging down to connect heavily with his skull. His vision went black, the concrete rushed up to meet his nose with a sickening _crunch,_ and Castiel raced towards unconsciousness.

  Before he could get there, he felt Dean grab him by the hair and yank his head up. Spots of light permeated the blackness and he saw the shadow of Dean squatting beside him.

 

   “You used to be much stronger.” The voice that cut through the ringing in the angel’s head was jarringly similar to the one Cas knew so well, but the flat tone and underlying rage set it apart from Dean’s true voice. It was like listening to a demon. It was like…

  Cas didn’t have a chance to continue thinking. Once more his head was smashed into the concrete, this time knocking him out completely. Blood pooled from his mouth and nose, and dripped from the laceration to his head. Dean stood, regarded the not-quite-an-angel-anymore lying unconscious in his own blood, and tutted.

   “Barely a threat,” he muttered, kicking Cas in the side one last time, “What a waste of my time.”

   He stepped around the body, wiped his bloodied hands absentmindedly on his jeans. The armoury, he reasoned, was sure to have a beautiful new machete just itching to be soaked in even more blood. Mood greatly improved, Dean set off. He didn’t even bother shutting the door behind him as he went.

He had better things to worry about; namely, finding a nice, shiny knife and putting an end to the last potential threat in this subterranean pit of a bunker.


End file.
